


She Sends Kisses

by ProphecyGirl



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Challenge Response, Emotional Manipulation, Episode: s06e20 Villains, F/F, Gen, Minor Violence, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-15 03:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17521505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProphecyGirl/pseuds/ProphecyGirl
Summary: Just when Faith thinks she's got the game figured out, it goes and changes.





	1. Très Involved

**Author's Note:**

> Prison Fic Challenge Entry (from oralfxatn.com)  
> Challenge requirements:bunk beds, showers, cafeteria, prison yard, solitary confinement, female guard(s), contraband, strip search, prison brawl/riot, laundry room, cigarettes, mail, shiv/shank, barbed wire, tattoos, lights out, lock down

_She worked Lost & Found, I put your face on her all year_  
_From five rows of photos when you wrote_  
_Of posed you, dressed blue, a backyard boat._  
_Signed at the bottom with this quote:_  
_(#4 North Shore--a cape may address, your new one I guess)_  
_`All`s well in hell and all, here`s hoping` [..]_  
_Past Seven Wrecks I read your four answers:_  
_1\. Your move 2. I`m très involved 3. Move on 4. Love, Beth [..]_  
_She sends kisses in envelopes stamped w/ `Hope & Hearts` - ripped right open_  
_She sends kisses, but I`m corrupt--I wrote back "Good luck."_  
_\- The Wrens, 'She Sends Kisses'_

 

* * *

 

 

People don't even try to hide it here, there's no shame in prison. Lights out and my cellie's grunts and groans in the bunk above mine inspire me into my own, my hand rubbing my slick heat faster and faster while I stare at five pictures stuck to the wall with gum.

One. Blonde hair, green eyes, laughing smile like a dagger in my heart. Two. A flash of red from that summer she ran away to live on her own. Three. A redhead and a brunette in the school hallway scratched out with a fingernail, because they are a part of some other life and I don't want them staring me in the face accusingly as I jack off. Four. Penetrating green eyes in a closeup with puffy pink lips that I just know feel amazing pressed against mine. Five, and I come, staring at the last, the only picture in existence of us together and it brings me off.

She sent it to me torn in half in her first letter.

She sent me a piece of tape in her second.

That's B for ya.

Her third letter she listed the things she'd do to me if I ever got out. Kicking, punching, and creative murder were popular items. I wrote back with a list of things I planned to do to her body when I get out.

Dear B,  
There's a girl here who does laundry that looks nothing like you and I made her lick me last night til I came all over her ugly birdlike little face but she had blonde hair and that was enough to get me off, just to look down there and see that mass of blonde between my legs.  
Love, Faith.

In her fourth letter was a lock of her hair with a note saying how that was as close as I'd ever get to having the real thing gripped in my hand.

I laughed and laughed and cried a little and forced the bird girl's head a little harder between my legs that night, abusing her the way I wanted to abuse B.

Some of us want to be abused. I don't know what her story is and I don't care, all I know is she's a suitable replacement for the time being and she likes me to hurt her like I want to hurt that pretty blonde head waiting back in Sunnydale for me, biding her time until I get out. Waiting for the final battle. The big showdown.

Oh, she wants me to fuck her. That's what all these little games are about. Sending me her hair clippings and ripped up pictures. It's all a dance, a mating ritual. The pain game. Emotional torture.

I called her once, the day after I got myself off with that lock of her hair pressed to my nose. It smelled like her, like sweat and overpriced body spray and her fruity shampoo.

I dialed the number. Busy. Hung up. Dialed again. Big bull dyke behind me's waiting her turn, but after I busted a couple heads my first weeks, nobody fucks with me anymore. Yeah, the week in solitary was a bitch but cracking skulls gets you a lot farther in prison than playing nice. Butchy can wait her turn.

I light a cigarette and dial a third time.

"Hello?"

I grin. "Hey baby."

The line goes silent, and I wonder if she hung up.

"What do you want?" she mumbles, and I picture her turning her back and burying her face in the corner so no one knows what she's up to.

"Thought you were overdue for an obscene phone call. What are you wearing?"

"Oh, go to hell, Faith."

I snort. "You first."

"Did you have something important to say, or were you just calling to be an asshole?"

"Mostly to be an asshole, but you knew that. Now I'm just wonderin' why you haven't hung up."

I hear her breath catch unsurely, and I smirk. Just barely, I hear a male voice thick with a Cockney accent, murmur, "Hang up, love."

Her breath hitches a little and I frown. "Is that.. Spike?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?' her voice is sickly sweet now, and it's pissing me off.

"What are you, fucking him now?"

"What's the matter, Faith?" Her breathing gets a little heavier. "Are you jealous?"

"Why the fuck would I be jealous, B? Some of us only get off on fucking the living, yunno." All kinds of little noises are coming through the line now, and my body tenses angrily at the same time I feel myself getting wicked turned on.

"Just.. figured.. you might be jealous," she pants into the phone. "Since you're not over me."

I snort and curse myself for sounding so damn unsure. "Please, I get more ass here than a proctologist. You're the one talkin' to me while you get off. Maybe it's you, not over me."

"Oh, I am all kinds of over you, baby," she says in that sugary tone again, and then she moans and something thumps and I lose it.

"Fuck you!" I spit into the reciever.

"You wish you could," comes the tinny answer as I pull the phone from my ear and slam it down so hard the whole wall vibrates.

I turn around and about ten bitches from the laundry room have left behind the boiling sheets and taken up spots in the hallway to stare at me. "Enjoy the fuckin' show?" I snarl, and the butch chick waiting for the phone backs up a step. I glare at all of them on my way out, daring them to say something.

Luckily, I manage to make it back to my cell before I start crying.

God, I fucking _hate_ her.


	2. All's Well in Hell

It was almost time for lights out after that phone call, which meant that, thankfully, no one saw me crying. My cellmate, Jay, came in and didn't even look twice at me before climbing up to her bunk and passing out. Lucked out on bunkies, I guess, 'cause Jay's deaf, so no one bothers talking to her. Story goes that she was dating her translator and he cheated on her with her sister. She found out and took a knife to him in his sleep. He lived, but he ain't gonna be breeding anytime soon.

Anyway, Jay ain't gonna tell anyone about how big bad Faith was sobbing into her tanktop.

Early the next morning, I pace back and forth in my cell. She really got to me. I mean, *really*. It was hot at first, all those sounds she was making.. I mean, damn. I thought I was gonna bust a nut right there at the phone.

I replay the conversation in my head over and over again, trying to figure out when exactly I crossed the line between horny and pissed. But it's completely blurred, which just makes me even more pissed off.

*I'm* the one supposed to be blurring the lines and fucking with her head. Yeah, maybe we've both done our share of mindfucking, but I'm supposed to be better at it than her. Lifetime of practice and all that. But if we're playing a game, it's pretty obvious she won the last round.

The morning bell goes off the minute the sun peeks through the building's windows. No windows in my cell, of course, but I've got a pretty good view anyway. I reach up and slap Jay's leg, and she sits up sleepily and signs 'Thank you', which is one of the only signs I know. And only 'cause she wrote it down for me. Before that, I figured she was flipping me off.

I sign back 'You're welcome' and she smiles a little bit. Maybe it's corny, but I'm trying to learn as much sign language as I can from her. As much as it sucks being in here, it must suck even more to be completely ignored.

We take our place just outside the cell door as the guards come by to do inspection. While they poke and prod around all our stuff, my mind wanders to that phone call again, and I get lost in it until I feel a sharp jab in my ribs.

I come to and realize I've got my fists clenched and my jaw set, and I must look like I'm about to blow. The guard who poked me with his billy club, a really hot black guy a little older than me named Ricky, just frowns a little and raises an eyebrow. "We gonna have a problem today, Lehane?" he asks, but it's not that mocking tone you get from some of the guards. Ricky's dad's a lifer, that's why he went into corrections in the first place, and he kinda has this crazy idea that even though we did some fucked up things, we're still human.

Go figure.

I shake my head. "Nah, I'm five by five."

He just looks at me seriously. "Carol wants to see you today."

Carol is my shrink. I dunno what her qualifications are, but she's gotta be pretty gutsy to stroll in here the way she does in a pair of heels and a business suit and not even bat an eye at the obscene catcalls. I frown. "I just saw her."

He shrugs. "You know how them damn bleeding-heart therapists are."

"Yeah, tell me about it." Not that I don't like Carol, but if I gotta hear about my inner child one more time, I'm gonna scream.

Ricky taps his club against the bars. "Better get to the showers, or you're gonna miss breakfast."

I nod and sign 'shower' to Jay, who looks a little confused, which probably means I've got the wrong sign. Instead, I mime scrubbing my arms and she laughs--weirdest sound ever, by the way--and we grab our towels and head towards the shower with her showing me the right sign. Apparently I was doing the sign for dumb, which is kinda fitting anyway.

We shower without incident, which is a nice change. Usually someone's gotta go getting handsy, but I guess everyone's too hungry to fuck around today.

Once we get to the cafeteria, I feel better. I'm not even thinking about that blonde bitch and her bony blonde fuckpuppet. I'm thinking about oatmeal, pancakes and eggs. All the things you hear about prison food is bullshit, let me tell you. Yeah, it's like school lunches, but it's hardly the worst thing I've had in my mouth. I grew up on stale Cheerios in a bowl of orange juice 'cause we had no milk, and uncooked pasta when the water got shut off.

This place is like the fucking Hilton, if you ask me.

Me and Jay load up on everything we can before we hit our usual table in the corner. We don't have a "full house" right now, as the warden puts it, so we pretty much have the table to ourselves. Usually we're crowded with fresh meat who figure out pretty quickly that I'm the one to hang out near. I'm not exactly a knight in shining armor, but I got sick of watching the newbies get pounded on every week. I put a couple girls in the infirmary, word got around, and now it's impossible to get a second alone outside my cell.

A few of the newer girls are sitting at the other end, picking at their food and avoiding each others' eyes. Stupid kids. If you can't crack skulls, the next best thing is making friends. Strength in numbers and all that.

I start chowing down, but the white noise of the cafeteria gets my mind wandering. What does Carol want? I know she's pretty into that touchy-feely crap, but we just had a session a couple days ago. I'm not due 'til next week.

Sometimes they make you have an extra session right after visitation, but, shit. No one's been to see me in months. Angel came pretty regular at first, and then it just kinda fizzled out. I got a call not too long ago, Cordy if you can believe it. She was asking all these weird questions about if my Watcher (my real one) had ever mentioned anything about pregnant vampires. I told her to quit sniffing glue, things got awkward, then we hung up.

Those people get weirder and weirder every year.

The only thing I can think of that Carol might wanna talk to me about is if some kind of bad news came down the pike. Shrinks get the awesome job of giving us bad news when no one else cares enough to do it at visitation.

Now I'm wracking my brain while my eggs get cold, trying to figure out what the news could be. Angel came to tell me when Buffy died, and came back a few months later to tell me she was back, which totally redefined the phrase "job hazard" for me. Obviously she hasn't kicked the bucket in the past twelve hours, so who else?

My mom's dead already, my dad's in prison and I don't think anyone would notice if he died. Or care enough to tell me.

Oh, shit. What if it's Angel? I can't see Cordy or Wes driving five hours to tell me Angel fits in a tupperware container, but Cordy might call. Maybe. That'd explain the lack of visits.

The more I think about it, the more paranoid I get. If Angel's gone, what shot do I have? Guy's like, my Yoda or something. I hate to admit it, but I've kinda depended on him to keep me on the straight and narrow.

"You gonna finish that?" I look up and this chick Lissie's standing over me, pointing at my plate. I pick it up and dump it on hers, and Jay looks at me like I've lost the plot. Usually I'm the one collecting leftovers to keep my Slayer metabolism from starving me to death overnight, but I suddenly don't have an appetite, at all.

"Thanks," she calls after me, as I head up to dump my tray. I wait impatiently while my plastic silverware's counted out, then haul ass to the door.

"Yo, Ricky told me I got a meeting with Carol," I tell the guard at the door. Must be a new guy, 'cause I don't know his name. "My therapist," I clarify.

He frowns. "What's your name?"

"Lehane." He glances down at his clipboard and flips a few pages, slowly scanning them. "L-E-H-A-N-E," I add, and I practically see a lightbulb go on over his head.

"Oh, yeah. Hold on." He picks up his walkie and speaks into it. "I've got Lehane here, for Carol Atkins."

The garbled voice comes through the line. "Send her up."

He nods--like whoever's on the line can see him--and says "Ten-four. You know where to go?"

I nod, and he steps out of the way. I practically jog through the hall until I hit the common room. Ricky gestures for me to follow him, and we walk in the opposite direction than usual. "We're not in visitation today?"

He shakes his head. "Warden's office." Oh, shit. I go a little pale, and he must see it. "I don't think you're in trouble, they just wanna talk to you."

You don't get pulled into the warden's to talk. You get pulled in there because they found a shank, or a ballon of coke, or because a visitor for you tried to bring you something you're not supposed to have. Or if you've got a court date or parole hearing, which isn't likely unless someone convinced Cochran to represent me.

Which means that someone probably panicked and planted something in my cell. If that's the case and they don't believe me, my sentence will be extended. I'm already doing 25 to life, but something like this, and I'll never be eligible for parole.

Shit, shit, shit.


	3. Interrogation

The warden's waiting outside the office. I haven't spent a lot of time with him or anything, but he seems like a decent enough guy. He's maybe early fifties, just starting to go grey. Kind eyes, but that tough look that lets you know he doesn't take any shit.

"Hello, Faith," he greets me, holding his hand out. I reach out and tentatively shake his hand. "Come on in." He steps back, and Carol's sitting in one chair, and a guy is standing behind her. I walk in slowly and take the empty seat next to Carol. The guy behind her has on an expensive-looking suit and shiny black shoes, and looks like a snake ready to strike. Obviously a lawyer. Probably not from Wolfram & Hart, which makes me feel a little more relieved than I want to admit.

Carol smiles at me. "Faith, this is Ian Caulfield, he's with the Office of the State Public Defenders." He nods at me and I nod back. "And you know Mike Rodanski." I nod again, trying to sit up straight in my seat.

"Faith," Mike starts gently. "We just.. have a few questions to ask you."

My mouth goes dry. "Yes, sir." I manage to croak out.

He looks at a few papers on his desk. "What's your relationship with Buffy Summers?"

My mind goes blank, and I'm completely thrown. "Who?"

"Buffy Summers. Of Sunnydale, California." Mike frowns a little as I continue staring at them blankly. "I see that she was asked to speak on behalf of the DA at your trial, and refused. Can you tell us about that?"

I swallow hard, completely confused. "I uh.. we hung out a little. Back in the day."

"I see." Mike looks at the papers again. "Two girls fitting your descriptions were arrested for breaking into an outdoorsman shop three years ago, but they were never processed. Apparently they managed to break the safety gate of the police cruiser, causing a crash, during which they managed to escape. Do you know anything about that?"

Oh god, oh god. This is bad, very bad. I try to look as innocent as possible when I answer. "No, sir. I can't say that I do."

"Hm." He studies the papers in front of him, and I wish that I could freeze time like Zack Morris always did on Saved By the Bell, so I could see what they say.

"Should I.. should I have a lawyer or something?" I ask.

Mike smiles a little and shakes his head. "Oh, no. This isn't a formal questioning, and you're not being charged with anything."

Carol reaches over and pats my arm a little. "It's okay, Faith. Just answer the questions honestly."

Yeah, easy for you to say.

"Do you know a Katrina Silber?"

I look at Mike blankly. "Who?"

"Katrina Silber. Do you recognize that name?"

Finally, something I can answer completely honestly. "No, sir. I don't."

"Have you had any contact with Buffy Summers since you've been here?"

"A little bit. A few letters and a couple calls."

"When was the last phone call?"

"Last night."

He exchanges a look with Ian. "Did she mention anything about Katrina?"

"No, sir."

"Did she indicate that she was.. in any way, upset?"

"I don't think so, sir."

Mike nods and makes a few notes. I glance back at Ian and he's writing like a fiend. Carol's still patting my arm lightly, and it's starting to bug. "Okay, Faith. Thank you."

Thank you? Wait a minute. "Um.. can I ask what all that was about?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," Mike says, folding his hands on the desk. I can tell we're done, so I stand up. "A guard will escort you back to the floor."

"You did good, Faith," Carol says, nodding at me. "I'll see you next week."

"Sure." I walk out slowly and Ricky takes me back down. I spend the rest of the day sitting on my bunk, staring at the pictures and wondering what the hell is going on.


	4. Keeping Ahead of the Storm

Weeks later, I'm sitting in the common room, playing checkers with Jay. A bunch of the girls are hanging around in front of the TV, watching the news. I'm willing to bet none of them watched the news on the outside, but in here we count on the midmorning news to fill us in on what's going on in the real world.

Right now, they're doing a story on some middle school teacher who was arrested for attacking one of his students, and the girls are doing a running commentary.

"Crazy ass son of a bitch," snaps one of them. "That was my daughter, I'd cut his dick off and shove it down his throat. Fucker'd never make it to trial."

A couple girls nod and murmur their agreement.

Even in a max security prison, there's a code of ethics, a food chain. You've got your rare serial killer, but they're usually in a different unit. Most of the chicks in here are in for murder or attempted, and most of them just got sick of getting the shit beat out of them all the time. You've heard the story. Some guy beats on his wife or girlfriend one time too many, and she goes all J. Lo on him, like that movie "Enough". The ones in here just weren't smart enough to set it up first and claim self defense. They just snapped one day.

Then you've got your assaults, repeat offenders (usually gang members), armed robberies, dealers, prostitutes, and the occasional wrongly convicted, in that order. Pretty much the same over at the guys' facility, from what I hear.

The only hand that beats murderer is sex offender. We don't get too many of those in here, and even the ones we do have made the mistake of boinking the neighbor's 17-year-old son, or one of their senior students. There's a lot of them at the guys' jail, but most of the time.. they don't last too long.

There's definitely some honor among thieves, because they go ballistic over that shit. You talk to someone who killed their entire family without blinking an eye, and they'll tell you how sadistic and fucked up a child molestor is. There was only one chick since I've been here that was charged with pimping out her kid. She made it three days before someone took her out right in her cell, and they never figured out who.

Jay jumps her checker over a couple of mine to hit the edge of the board and points at the one piece of hers I've managed to take out, which I use to king her. I always sucked at this game, anyway, but it passes the time.

I hear a cheer go across the room, and turn around to face the television.

Time for the weather report.

Let me break it down for you. The guy who does the weather report is hot. I mean, Brad Pitt meets George Clooney by way of James Dean hot. Prison gets a lot of chicks in bed with another chick, for sure, but most of 'em straighten out if they ever make it outside. Around here, watching the weather guy is as close to porn as we're allowed to get.

Even I can't resist, and I've always preferred a nice rack over a dick--but this guy manages to make me give a shit whether it's raining in the midwest.

Everyone stares for awhile, and a sigh makes its way around the room when he says "Back to you, Tom." They all start chattering about what they'd like to do to him, and how they ought to get him to come do a story here--on what, the weather inside the pen?

Suddenly, something the anchor says catches my ear, and I start yelling. "Everyone shut the fuck up!" I jump over the couch and get as close to the mounted TV as I can, while I get bitched at from behind. I ignore them and listen to the woman giving the report.

"--location here at the Los Angeles County Courthouse, where the young woman who, one month ago, confessed to killing twenty-two year old Katrina Silber, was sentenced today to serve twenty-five years to life in a state facility. Twenty-one-year-old Buffy Anne Summers, of Sunnydale, California, plead guilty to charges of aggravated assault and voluntary manslaughter. Friends and family declined--"

I don't hear the rest, because one of the guards comes by and turns it off. Everyone else groans as they're ushered towards the door that leads outside, but I stare blankly at the girl's head in front of me. I just keep thinking this isn't happening, that it's a dream or a spell or something.

For once, I don't work out. I just sit on a bench with a lit cigarette, looking through the fence to the outside world. The one I'll probably never set foot in again, for as long as I live. Everything in here seems muted, and everything out there.. brighter than usual. Before I know it, they're calling us back in again.

I walk back to my cell in a haze, staring at the grey walls as though they've got some hidden answer carved in them. There's gotta be more to the story, right? Maybe some demon posing as a human.. I'm sure it'shappened. It's all just a mess and Giles will figure it out eventually, because that's what he does.

I try to imagine Buffy surviving a max security prison, and even with her Slayer strength, I don't see it. She's too soft, too spoiled. She doesn't have a clue how it works in a place like this, where everyone is out to get you. There's no friends in prison, just people that haven't screwed you over yet, and people you haven't screwed over yet. I try to picture Buffy Summers, Sunnydale's very own knight in shining press-on nails, doing hard time.

Probably right here.

Jesus.


	5. Drifting

> _All I know is that I'm here, drifting somewhere in the vast_   
>  _Somewhere in eternity, and I never want to leave._   
>  _Where do I put the books? There's so many I could read_   
>  _But they all are filled with lies._   
>  _Where do I put the lies? There's so many I could say_   
>  _But it seems they're in the books._   
>  _I have faith that you're out there, living high up in the vast_   
>  _Somewhere in eternity, and you're never going to leave_   
>  _Have I been telling lies to myself?_   
>  _\- VAST, 'Here'_

 

I start thinking crazy, like maybe it's all a plot to get her on the inside so she can kick my ass. She's gotta be coming here, why else would the warden have been asking me about our relationship? At least I already got a cellmate. That'd be all I need--Buffy and her snotty attitude sleeping in the top bunk. Like she doesn't already think she's higher than me.

I stay awake all night, thinking and worrying about it. By the time the morning bell goes off, I've torn the pictures off the wall and shoved them under my mattress to stop her eyes from looking at me accusingly. Blearily I reach up and tap Jay's leg a few times, and she sits up with a yawn.

I head to the showers, my mind still churning. I imagine Buffy sitting in a cell with four or five other women, waiting to be brought here. She'd be at county, maybe. Probably the roundhouse, though. Where they hold you 'til your paperwork catches up with you. If they're on schedule, they should be bringing a busload in today, including her.

As I shower, I wonder what it'll be like. When she walks in, hears the chants of "fresh meat". The girls playing grabass behind the guards' backs. I wonder if she'll cry, or if she'll just do her best to ignore them. I wonder how she'll survive. If she'll survive.

I wonder how the hell I do.

Two Slayers active at the same time--the council's best wet dream come true, right? But now what? Us in here, them out there.

"We can't save the world in jail."

Those were my words, coming back to haunt me now. It's not like I have this huge sense of sacred duty or something, but I've seen an apocalypse or two in my time. From the stories I've heard, every one that Buffy stopped was a close call, too. Just barely wrenching the earth back from the clutches of hell. Now what'll happen, next time some demented demon opens a portal or some vamp has a vision of enslaving the human race?

It's a little overwhelming. It makes me look up at the high, barred windows in the shower room and wonder if I could break out, even if I wanted to. Not that I like being here, but there's a kind of.. inner peace, that comes from knowing you're being punished for something you did.

But is this really a punishment? By sitting in a dank little cell all day, getting my meals and toiletries for free, having a roof over my head and clothes on my back.. is that gonna change what I did? I wonder if it'd be worse for me being out there, fighting for my life every night. Watching everyone else go around with friends or family, going on dates and getting jobs, while I'm stuck picking demon goo out from under my nails and trying to breathe with broken ribs every morning.

How is this life worse than that one?

Maybe Angel's been leading me down the wrong path all this time. He keeps telling me this is the road to redemption, the path to righteousness, whatever. But what the hell am I making up for here? It doesn't bring back the people I killed, it just gets more people killed. At the end of my twenty-five to life sentence, I wonder how many people will be dead that might not be if I was out there fighting for my redemption instead of waiting for it to fall into my lap.

I feel like I wanna scream loud as I can that I don't deserve to be here. Not like it'd be the first time they heard it, but it might be the first time the follow up was "Prison's too good for me."

All this time I thought the clink was the answer, that I was finally doing something right. But all I've done is take the easy way out, again.

My thoughts get to be too much and I slam my fist into the wall of the shower, breaking off a couple of the ugly green tiles, and causing everyone around me to stop and stare. Twenty naked women of all shapes and sizes, staring directly at me and looking wigged.

One of them mumbles the word "freak" under her breath, and I feel myself racing head-on towards a total breakdown. I quickly stick my head under the water, rinsing the last of the soap from my hair, and walk away, pulling on my uniform without even bothering to dry off, and pull my hair up into a rubber band.

Why do I keep putting her on a pedestal she doesn't deserve?

What makes her better than me? She killed someone, same as me. She's gonna spend the rest of her young life in prison, same as me. She's always been better than me, at everything. Having friends, keeping friends, slaying, functioning. Only thing I've ever been good at is reeling a guy in and being a convict. Faith, the model prisoner. Sure, she busted a few heads at first, but now the other girls keep away from her, which is just how she likes it. Makes her bed, keeps her cell clean, turns in all her flatware at meals.

Maybe I'm just terrified that Buffy'll be better at me than this, too. That inside a week, she'll have the girls repenting and finding God and swearing to live a better life if and when they ever get out. Maybe she'll turn this whole place upside down, make the chicks that've lost everything think they have something again. Buffy Summers and her brilliant prison outreach plan. I can hear the soundbites on the news already, as they interview her in her cell. She'll squeeze out a few sympathetic tears, toss that golden blonde hair of hers--soft and shiny despite the cheap soap they give us, and engage the American viewing public.

"It's like that song, you know? I once was lost, but now am found. We can't change the past, so we all just have to make better choices for the future."

Gag me with an entire tea set for eight.

I'll tell you one thing, though. I sure won't be worshiping at the altar of Little Miss Our-Lady-of-Sunnydale.

No way.


	6. Subtle, Sister

 

>   
>  _You wanna see what it's like down here_   
>  _in this pool of someone else's rules, well_   
>  _jump in, take a swim or just sit in this pit_   
>  _squishing bare toes in someone else's bullshit,_   
>  _we do it all the time._   
>  _\- Alix Olson, 'Subtle Sister'_

 

I remember my intake.

You spend about five hours in R&D talking to shrinks, doctors, and nurses. Sit in a cell with all the other intakes that day. Get strip searched and tossed in the shower before getting your state-issued clothes, some sheets for your bed, and all the basic hygiene crap. Back to the cell. Then they give you a couple of stacks of paper that you won't read, and talk to you and the other newbies for awhile about behavior, rehab programs, contraband, gangs, phone privileges, and sexual conduct. Back to the cell again, where you sit until they assign you to a housing unit.

You spend the next thirty days there, going to orientations, hearing about the different programs they offer, taking aptitiude tests and psych tests and every other kind of test you can imagine. Then they assign you a counselor, who's either gonna be your best friend or your worst enemy. They decide what custody level you're at, which has a pretty big influence on how much of an eye the guards are gonna keep on you.

More paper, where they decide what factors in your life brought you here, and whether those are gonna be a factor when you get out.

Then there's Intake Day.

It's not called that officially, of course. That's just what we call it when they bus in the newbies. The rest of the population is locked up as the newest wards of the state do the walk of shame down the hall to their cells to the tune of "Fresh meat!" and "Nice ass!"

Usually I'm laying on my bunk reading while Jay snores above on intake day. I figure it's humiliating enough without everyone staring at you and screaming.

Today's different, though. If I did my math right, aside of my GED tutor being proud of me for once, it means that Buffy's gonna be coming in today. If this is even where she's coming. Soon as the trial was over, the news anchors quit covering the story, which is how it always happens.

The news turns you into a villain and doesn't let you tell your side. See, it's easier for people to cope if they think of us as monsters instead of people. They think they want to hear our sob stories, but they're not listening. Zoom in on a crying face in a courtroom, and they say it's faked for sympathy while the defendant is asked to recap their violent childhood. Every chick in here's got a sob story, and the courtroom's the last place that cares.

I'm not saying I don't deserve punishment. I'm saying back in the day, I would've walked a barefoot mile over hot coals to have someone act like they cared.

The point is, no one gives a shit about us. That's why it's dog-eat-dog in here, because everyone wants to feel like they're worth something. The only way to feel like that is to beat down all the people you know are better than you. Sometimes I think prison makes more sense than the rest of the world.

And sometimes I think it's exactly the same.

Whatever.

This intake day, though, my book's somewhere under the bed, and I'm leaning against the bars to look as far down the cell block as I can, just like everyone else. The fear coming from behind those heavy metal doors is so strong you can practically taste it in the air. The new girls are terrified, and it's making even the most seasoned inmates stir-crazy. Like animals in a zoo.

The guards take up positions every ten cells or so, and the excitement in the air thickens as a loud buzzer goes off, signaling that the doors are about to be opened.

And then, there they are. A long, straggling single-file line of frightened looking women. They're all cuffed in front so they can carry the few things they have, and there's a few guards escorting them. A few hands reach out from the cells, grabbing at the girls, and getting smacked with a billy club for their effort.

I already know this block is full, so I light a cigarette and wait patiently for the line to pass by. A few young girls at the front already have that half-glazed look that means they'll be in the nut house or dead before they serve out a full week. I recognize one or two of the older women as frequent flyers. Some people just can't cope with the outside, so they go and do something else stupid to get tossed back in. Towards the end of the line, a couple of elderly women shuffle along slowly, and like I always do, I wonder how someone could live to be seventy or eighty, and then end up in prison for the last couple years of their lives.

It takes a few minutes for me to realize that the line's long since passed, and the catcalling is even starting to die down, and I didn't see a single blonde head the whole time.

Buffy's not here.

She's not here, and I'm so disappointed that I could scream.


	7. Battle of Who Could Care Less

> _Will you never rest?_   
>  _Fighting the battle of who could care less_   
>  _Unearned unhappiness_   
>  _You're my hero, I confess_   
>  _\- Ben Folds, 'Battle of Who Could Care Less'_

 

It's probably around two in the morning when I wake up, my scalp tingling. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and turn my head towards the bars, blinking at the pale fluorescents. Something's going on. There's an electricity in the air that's got me suddenly wide awake.

A shadow darkens my view and a male voice calls out, "Lehane!" I raise my hand in a half wave, and the guard snaps a little. "This isn't head count, Lehane. Out of bed. And get her up, too."

Shit. What did I do now? I stand up and slap Jay's leg a couple of times, and she sits up sleepily. The guard waves us forward, and I swallow my panic, approaching the bars. He holds up a pair of handcuffs and Jay and I both stick our hands through the bars. He cuffs me and unlocks the cell door, motioning towards her bed. She frowns and he looks at me, like I'm supposed to help him.

"She reads lips." That's all I'm giving him. Not my job to interpret.

He nods a little. "Get your stuff," he says, facing her. She glances at me briefly before going back to her bed and tossing all her stuff onto it before pulling up the sheet and slinging it over her shoulder.

"What's going on?" I ask, leaning my head tiredly against the bars. I just wanna go back to sleep.

"You've got a new cellmate." Great. I look around, but I can't see anybody else with him. He closes the door after Jay walks out and leaves the cuffs on me as he leads her down the row. Even better. Not only do I get a fun new roommate, but I'm cuffed and I gotta pee.

The buzzer goes off, and I hear the steel doors open. Must be guard number two, coming to bring me my new bestest buddy.

Sure enough, Ricky's working the night shift now, and here he comes down the block, leading a scrawny looking chick who's dragging her feet. He nudges her in the back with his nightstick, hard, and I take a deep breath. Ricky's one of the only ones that doesn't get off on getting all violent with us, so at least now I know why they're rooming this bitch with me.

She's a psycho, and they figure no one else will be able to protect themselves against her. Fuck. Now I gotta worry about getting shanked in my sleep or something.

They stop in front of the cell and it's a good thing I'm cuffed to the bars, cause when I see Buffy's face under that tangled mess of hair, I almost hit the floor.

She stares straight at me, her face blank. She's got bruises on her arms, and she looks like she hasn't slept in weeks.

I look up at Ricky curiously as he unlocks the cell and lets her in. He shrugs and closes the door, mouthing 'sorry' at me before unlocking my cuffs and pocketing them. I turn around to face her, and she looks back at me stonily.

"Long time, no see." She doesn't even react, just dumps her shit onto the floor in the corner. "You know they won't let us go to breakfast if the cell ain't clean."

She doesn't even shrug, just sits down on my bed and narrows her eyes at me a little. Oh, we're playing that game. Just what I need in the middle of the night. I break eye contact and go over to the toilet, whipping down my pants and doing what I've gotta do. If she wants to ignore me, I'll ignore her right back.

I finish up and turn around to flush, and when I turn back, she's laying on my bed facing the wall. "That's my bed." Nothing. I sigh and lean over, grabbing her sheet and pillow case off the floor before climbing uneasily up to the top bunk and stretching the sheet out over it.

"Thanks," I say sarcastically as I lay down, pressing myself as close to the wall as possible, but of course there's no answer.

She always manages to fucking win.


	8. Funeral of a Good Girl

> _Well maybe I'm going crazy, but_   
>  _You be the kid and I'll be the candy store._   
>  _Take me down, baby._   
>  _\- Bif Naked, 'Funeral of a Good Grrl'_
> 
>  

I sleep until the loud buzzer wakes me, and I bury my face deeper in the pillow. I'm exhausted and I don't wanna move, don't wanna deal with this day. I roll over slowly, stretching, and before I can finish my yawn, I hit the floor on my back like a sack of anvils.

It takes me a minute to realize that I was asleep on the top bunk, and then last night comes crashing down on me, and I open my eyes, expecting little Miss Bitchy-Pants to be snoozing away, but her (my!) bed is empty. I tilt my head up and she's in the corner, sorting through the shit she dumped there last night.

"Don't worry, I'm fine," I say sarcastically, but she doesn't even glance back at me.

Okay, now I'm pissed. I stand up and grab at her arm, fully intending to make her listen. She makes a weird noise the minute I touch her, kind of like a cross between a growl and a gasp, and wrenches her arm away from me.

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms and staring at her. At least she's looking directly at me for a change, instead of through me. We stare at each other for probably a full minute before she reaches out and grabs me by the throat, lifting me off the ground.

"What the fuck, B?" I yell, but she just holds on tighter, and breathing starts to become a little bit of an issue. "Put me down before you fuckin' kill me, you crazy bitch!" I kick out at her and manage to catch her in the knee, and her grasp loosens a little.

I choke a little and try to pry her fingers off my neck. Suddenly, it's like she realizes what she's doing, and she drops me to the floor unceremoniously. I glare at up at her, rubbing my throat which is definitely gonna bruise.

She looks back at me, and just says quietly, "Don't ever touch me again."

I cough. "Yeah, great, whatever. I didn't realize touching was a chokeable offense. You could've almost-killed me again."

Her eyes narrow and she leans down, putting her face right in mine. "Trust me, Faith. Next time it won't be 'almost'. Just 'cause we're stuck in this cell together doesn't mean we're gonna be buddies all of a sudden."

I snort, pushing myself up off the floor and leaning toward her, making it obvious that I've got a good three inches on her. "You don't get to look down on me anymore. You're just as guilty of murder as I am."

Her lips curve into a sharp smile, her voice low. "I'll always be able to look down on you, Faith. That's one of the perks of being a better person than you."

"Murder's murder," I snap. "Doesn't matter whether it's an accident or on purpose."

She shrugs, still smiling as she tosses the last of her shit onto what passes for a shelf here. "Law says it matters. That's why I'll be out in ten years, and you'll be shoveling coal in hell before you ever see daylight again."

"Oh, fuck you," I answer lamely.

She smirks a little. "Not in your wildest dreams."

I turn my back, watching for the guard to come let us out for a shower and breakfast.

"What's the matter Faith? You can dish it, but you can't take it?" I don't respond, but I feel my whole body go tense with fury. "Aw, did I hurt the psycho killer's delicate little feelings?"

I whip my head around. "Listen, bitch, in a second here, this killer's gonna go psycho and strangle you with a pillowcase if you don't shut your fucking mouth!"

She just laughs, a hard, nasty laugh. "I'd like to see you try."

I glare at her before turning around again, moving closer to the bars. If they don't let us out soon, there's definitely gonna be some blood, and right now I don't really give a shit whose. At least now I know why they stuck her with me. She probably failed their psych evaluation, too. She's sitting on the bottom bunk, still chuckling.

God, I miss being ignored.


	9. Fading

> _Time is never time at all_   
>  _You can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth_   
>  _And our lives are forever changed_   
>  _We will never be the same_   
>  _The more you change, the less you feel._   
>  _\- Smashing Pumpkins, 'Tonight Tonight'_
> 
>  

Let's get one thing straight.

Slayer is not synonymous with killer. We're here to protect people, not murder them. The fact that what happened with Katrina was an accident doesn't make her any less dead. Because of me. Her entire life, her future, her past, everything she ever was and ever would have been--gone.

I deserve this. I deserve every minute of this, every little bit of misery and awfulness this place has to offer. And trust me, it has a lot to offer. I deserve justice. Punishment.

But sticking me in a cell with Faith of all people isn't just a punishment. It's a nightmare. She is everything I hate in a human being. More specifically, she's everything I hate about myself.

Not that I don't deserve to have to spend every day staring at my reflection in her eyes. Knowing that we're equal. Doesn't matter what I say to her, we both know we're on even ground now. My hands are just as dirty as hers, and I hate it. I hate that this is what I've become. I hate my friends for bringing me back, and I hate that everything has gone so wrong since I clawed my way out of my own grave. I hate that *I've* gone so wrong.

I hate that I hate so much, because I never used to.

My first morning here wasn't so bad. Knocked Faith down a peg or two, made it through my shower with minimal groping and punching from the other inmates, and had my bacon swiped right off my plate at breakfast.

Could be worse. I kind of wish it was. I might feel better about being in here if it was more miserable for me. But then, if being miserable is the point, maybe it's better it's not worse, because that would make me feel better?

My convoluted thoughts make me think of Willow, and despite how angry I am with her, my heart suddenly lurches in my chest and it hits me how much I really miss them. Willow and Xander, Dawn and Giles..

God, Giles. He must be so disappointed in me. He must hate me, must think he failed me as a Watcher and hate himself for it. I wish I could call him, tell him that it's not his fault, that he can't shoulder my mistakes anymore.

I wish I could tell him how much I love him.

I wish I could tell Dawn how sorry I am.

"Are you gonna use that or just sit there with your thumb up your ass all day?" someone snaps in my ear.

I shake my head a little and realize I've been leaning against the exercise bike this whole time, lost in thought.

"No?" the girl leans closer. Her breath smells like Fritos and it makes me want to puke. I move away a little, but she shoves me hard anyway. "Then get out of the way, meat."

I feel every muscle in my body go tense, but I take a deep breath and force myself to turn around and walk away, reminding myself with every step that I have it coming. That I don't get to defend myself, that everything that happens from now on is my fault.

I look up, and Faith is paused mid-pullup on an exposed pipe, watching me curiously. Her face softens and sympathy washes over it, like she knows exactly what I was thinking, and it pisses me off. I harden myself as fast as I can, glaring back at her.

She slowly starts moving again, pulling her knees to her chest as she goes up and down, and I walk past her quickly, trying to ignore the disappointment on her face.


	10. She Ain't Heavy..

I head back to the cell and lay down on my bed. Can't stop my thoughts from turning, but it's hard to think when you're asleep. I stare at the underside of Faith's bunk for maybe an hour, forcing my mind to stay empty. It's so hard to stop thinking that I eventually resort to singing the alphabet backwards under my breath. Anything to keep my thoughts locked up.

At some point I doze off, but the unconsciousness isn't as helpful as I'd hoped it would be. I dream of stabbing Faith in the stomach, only this time she doesn't jump off the roof. She just looks at me sadly before I shove her off it myself.

I wake up in a cold sweat, my heart thumping in my ears. Something's not right. It's noisy, noisier than usual. The bulb in my cell is out, and it takes my eyes a minute to adjust to the lack of light, and then another minute to realize it's not just my bulb. I get to my feet quickly, moving forward quietly. I squint in the dark and move towards the screaming I hear down the corridor.

Being a Slayer does have certain advantages, like being able to make out shapes in the black that a normal person couldn't. There's a few other women moving around in the dark, and I press my body against the wall just in time to hear gunshots being fired eerily close by.

Before I can do anything, a body hits me like a ton of bricks and I cry out as I hit the ground on my back. Instinctively I grab at the woman, but she's not moving even a little, and something warm and wet and coppery-smelling leaks over my face. I let out a scream of my own and shove the corpse aside roughly, rolling onto my stomach.

More screams, and the noise gets closer. Everything is chaos, the dead woman's blood dripping down my face, and I shut my eyes, curling into the fetal position. Don't step on me, I pray. Nobody step on me down here, and nobody hurt me. I'll play dead, they'll think I'm a corpse, too, and whoever killed that woman will leave me alone.

I feel someone move beside me and then they grab my shoulders. Despite myself, I scream again but a hand clasps over my mouth quickly, silencing my cry.

"Buffy," Faith whispers harshly, her lips practically pressed against my ear. "Be quiet! Can you move? Nod yes or no." I nod. "Don't scream." I nod again, and she takes her hand off my mouth and even in the darkness I can see her eyes widen.

"Not mine," I whisper under my breath.

She looks relieved and gets onto her stomach, looking over at me and pointing towards the cell. Angry feet trample past us, and I hear her bite back a cry as she's stepped on, but she stays where she is, pressing me against the wall and using her body as a shield between me and the chaos.

I swallow hard and nod at her as she gestures again, and silently we pull ourselves along the concrete floor like infantrymen avoiding enemy fire. The rough stone scrapes my stomach, but I stay pressed as flat to the ground as I can.

The noise heightens, more gunshots sound, and every so often more warm, sticky stuff splashes on us, and I can't even let myself be honest about what it is. The smell of smoke curls around my head now, and I'm more terrified than I've ever been in my life.

"Hey!" someone cries, and grabs Faith by the hair, lifting her up. I duck my head and wrap my arms over the back of it, not wanting to feel her blood rain down on me, not being able to handle that.

I listen to Faith struggle for a minute before rolling to my side and kicking out at whoever's got a hold of her. The female guard goes down, her badge glinting slightly in the dark, and drops Faith, who hits the ground with a sickening thump.

"Faith!" I hiss, and she raises her head just a little, letting me know she's alive. She takes a deep breath before pushing herself forward again, her breathing labored. We slowly, silently make our way back to our cell, avoiding contact with several more corpses along the way, and a few bodies that weren't corpses yet, but probably would be soon. I count at least three guards, not including the one I kicked.

Faith points under the bed and I quickly slide back against the wall, making room for her. She slides in next to me and rolls onto her back, letting out a pained grunt and clutching her side. Blood stains her face, and at least some of it's hers, coming from her nose and a decent sized cut across her forehead.

My cheeks are wet with a mixture of blood and tears, and my entire body is soaked with perspiration. It's a few minutes of listening to the war zone outside before I turn my head slightly, still laying on my stomach, and whisper to her.

"What's happening?"

She doesn't answer, and when I look over, her eyes are closed. For a minute I think she's dead, she's dead and she's blocking my way out, and I panic at the thought of spending the night next to her dead body. But then she opens her eyes a little, swallowing hard.

"Bunch of girls.. jumped one of the guards.. the whole place went batshit," she says, her voice raspy, before closing her eyes again.

"Open your eyes," I whisper. She grunts in response. "You hit your head, if you go to sleep you're gonna die."

"Not gonna die.. wouldn't give you the satisfaction," she mumbles, and I see her body relax.

"No," I say, wincing in sympathy even as I poke my finger against her broken ribs.

She lets out a cry and curls onto her good side. "What the fuck, B?" she cries into the floor, holding her side tightly.

"I'm sorry," I say honestly. "Just trying to keep you awake."

"What do you even care?" she snaps crankily, but her voice is more scared than anything.

"You saved my life. I owe you."

She snorts a little, then winces as her nose lets down more blood. "Yeah, okay."

"I do!" I insist, and she opens her eyes to look at me. "And I always pay off my debts. So. You can't die 'til I've paid you back."

"I'm just tired," she mumbles. Just then, more gunshots are fired, and her eyes pop open. She rolls carefully onto her stomach next to me, and her body feels warm and comforting against mine. We both stare out the cell door, watching feet go back and forth and the occasional body falling. I finally let her sleep sometime around dawn, and I doze off as well, my cheeks still wet with tears, and the scent of her blood filling my nose.


	11. Shoulda Coulda Woulda

> _Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend,_   
>  _Somewhere along in the bitterness._   
>  _And would I have stayed up with you all night,_   
>  _Had I known how to save a life._   
>  _\- The Fray, 'How to Save a Life'_
> 
>  

Sometime around sunrise, the sudden silence wakes me, and I blink sleepily in the harsh light. Every inch of my body is sore, and I can feel the dried blood caked on my skin, hardened after so many hours. My eyes adjust pretty quickly and I look next to me. Faith is on her stomach, her head turned slightly towards me. Her mouth is open, and her face is barely recognizable under the layers of blood. Her skin is pale, and her hand next to mine is cool.

Oh god, oh god. I shouldn't have let her sleep. Should have stayed up and prodded her ribs every few minutes, made sure she didn't pass out. Now she's dead, and it's all my fault. I tap her cheek a few times, but she doesn't move, and I feel tears stinging my eyes, but I can't say whether it's guilt or just the stress of the past twelve hours causing them.

"Faith," I hiss, shaking her back roughly. "Don't be dead," I say a little louder, shaking her more.

She still doesn't move, and I freak out. I slap her cheek hard, pushing against her legs roughly with mine and yell, "Faith! Get up!"

And then, and then.. she opens her eyes a little and swats at my hand. "Go 'way," she mumbles, turning her face away from me. I'm so relieved that I burst into tears, pressing my forehead against the dirty floor. She slowly rolls onto her back, letting out a pained grunt, and looks over at me. "Why're you cryin'?"

I just shake my head, my face still buried in the concrete, and sob even harder. Everything hits me then, everything. I think about Katrina, poor Katrina, probably coming to me for help. I think about Dawn, lost and alone at our father's house, a stranger in her own family. My mom, and how hard she struggled every day to make life bearable for everyone around her. Giles, and how he devoted his entire life to me even though he didn't have to and how he wrecked his own life more than once because of it.

You have a father's love for the girl..

I think about my friends, and how much I miss the cinnamon scent of Willow's favorite perfume, and Xander's hands, softer than mine, massaging those awful post-slaying knots out of my shoulders. I think of the all-night research sessions and all of us getting so wound up that we just had to let it out, so we'd turn on the radio and dance right there in the library like maniacs. I think of a gentle moment with Cordelia, showing me how to cover the bruises without caking on the foundation. And Oz, strumming his guitar and singing Beatles songs for us when everything felt like it was sinking.

I cry harder and I think of Jesse and how different our lives would be now if I'd saved him. Ditto Faith, and when she wraps her arm around me comfortingly, I feel another piece of my heart shatter and I shake with the violence of my tears.

Faith eases closer to me and holds me tighter, and I stiffen against her but she holds me tighter anyway, and finally, finally I let her. I let her hold me and I lose it. The tears pool under my face, mixed with blood and sweat and saliva, and I think of every life I didn't save, and every time I all but begged Spike to punish me, and every time I could have told my mother how much I loved her and didn't, and every time I screamed at Dawn and slammed the door in her face, and how badly I treated Riley and Xander and anyone that was willing to love me. I think about what I could have done to make Angel stay.

Faith just holds on tighter and I shift to my side a little, burying my face in her chest and screaming my misery against her skin. Her calloused hands rub my back through my ripped shirt, and we lay for nearly an hour like that, my sobs slowly subsiding to small gasps and an awful case of hiccups.

Finally, exhausted, I slump against her, every ounce of energy drained from my body. Slowly, she loosens her grip and I roll onto my back, stretching and popping my vertebrae, stiff from laying on concrete all night. She stays quiet, but I can feel her eyes on me. It doesn't bother me so much now, and I relax my body, looking at the underside of the mattress through the metal bars supporting it.

Something catches my eye and I reach up towards it and feel Faith tense beside me as I pull a small stack of photos from beneath the mattress.

"What is this?" I whisper, looking through the photos slowly. My sophomore yearbook photo, one taken at the stupid 'welcome back' party my friends threw after the summer I killed Angel and ran away. Me, Willow, and Cordy in the hall at school--and I remember Xander driving us nuts with flashes every few minutes. Giles had gotten him the camera for Christmas, and he never told Giles but it was the first Christmas present he'd ever gotten from someone besides Willow. Willow and Cordelia's faces are scratched out angrily, and the fourth picture is just a closeup, probably snapped at one of our sleepovers with weapons.

My hands shake as I get to the last picture and Faith rolls over, looking away from me, her body stiff as a board. Faith and I in the library during an all-nighter, surrounded by books and half-eaten packages of Poptarts and potato chips and open cans of Pepsi. She's pulling her ski cap down over her face, but her eyes, just barely visible under the edge of the hat, glitter with amusement, and she's laughing. I've got my arms around her, kissing her cheek, our legs stretched out on top of the table, an open book in her lap where you can see she's tucked a comic book between its pages.

The picture's been ripped in half and taped back together. I look over at her back. "Faith?" I whisper. "What are these? Where did they come from?" She mumbles something I can't understand. "I don't speak Mumblese. Why won't you look at me?"

She rolls onto her back slowly, wincing, and looks over at me, but avoids my eyes. "You don't remember?"

I look at the picture of us again, and I do remember. I remember ripping it in half angrily and stuffing it in an envelope with a letter I don't even want to try to remember. Then Angel asked me to visit her, try to make amends, see how much she was changing, and I felt guilty enough to write a letter making a dozen excuses why I couldn't come, and stuck a piece of tape on the backing from one of Dawn's Lisa Frank sticker albums so she could fix the picture if she still even had it. Or at least see that I felt bad about ripping it up, if she didn't.

She's still looking at me. "I remember," I say softly, putting the photos back where I got them from. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have touched them. They're not mine."

She swallows hard. "It's not a big deal."

I turn my head, catching her eyes. "I can't believe you kept those."

She shrugs a little and closes her eyes, signaling that she doesn't want to talk about it anymore, and I decide to let it go.

For now, anyway.


	12. Touched

> _I looked into your eyes and saw a world that does not exist_   
>  _I looked into your eyes and saw a world I wish I was in_   
>  _I'll never find someone quite as touched as you_   
>  _I'll never love someone quite the way that I loved you_   
>  _\- VAST, 'Touched'_

We lay in bed. Just laying, Faith curling the ends of my hair around her fingertips, my head on her chest. There's something comforting about the feel of a body next to yours, the warmth and weight of another person, reminding you that you're not alone. We're all alone at the end of the day, we're always stuck in our own heads. But it's nice, for even a few minutes at a time, to pretend that's not true.

Faith's hand slows, and I smile a little as her heartbeat does as well. It lasts maybe a minute before she unknowingly kills the moment by letting out a snore that could make cows restless miles away.

"You're disgusting," I whisper to her, and she mumbles her agreement. At least, that's how I choose to interpet it.

We've both slept in the bottom bunk every night since the riot.

We never discussed it, we just did it. Everything around us slowly returned to normal. Lockdown ended after a few days, and we were allowed to roam the common area again, though there was a noticeable increase in the amount of guards present at any time. Cuts and bruises started to heal, contraband began circulating again, empty cells were filled, and the news stories died down to almost nothing.

But something changed between us. Like an unspoken agreement that we would have each other's back no matter what. Something changed inside me, too. For so long, I felt that I needed to be punished, that I deserved to be hurt, that anything that happened to me was just a consequence of my own actions. Every single night since I clawed my way out of my grave, I dreamed of clawing my way right back inside it. Closing out the sun, closing my eyes, and floating away to the comforting abyss of dreamless sleep.

Spike was wrong. I never wanted to hide in the dark.

I wanted to hide in the nothing.

At least, I thought I did. If I really wanted to disappear, to not exist anymore, I wouldn't have been so terrified that I was going to die during the riot. I wouldn't have wanted to survive it so badly.

We never discussed the pictures; we never needed to. I knew deep inside why she'd kept them, and with my hatred for her waning every moment, I no longer felt like rubbing it in her face.

The way I see it, we're stuck in this place for the next ten years or so together. Probably in the same cell thanks to our respective reputations as freakishly strong headcases. Either one of us could request a swap for a lot of reasons, but I don't plan to, and I doubt Faith does either.

Better the devil you know.

Of course, the devil I know is sleeping with her mouth open and making so much noise that it sounds like she's got a cat caught in her sinuses, and she looks more goofy than devilish. I shift a little, laying my head on her shoulder instead, and studying her face.

After a few minutes she cracks one eye and furrows her brows. "Wha?"

I just shrug and close my eyes.

"You want me," she mumbles lightly as she dozes off again.

It's kind of a running joke. Obviously, everyone in here has me pegged for Faith's bitch, and I'd probably get charged with perjury if I tried to tell them we weren't sleeping together. The truth of the matter is, Faith is strong. Physically strong.

And I'm terrified.

At night I wake up crying from dreams of being trampled to death by bloody inmates, of corpses chasing me through a prison labyrinth. Gunshots being fired and screams.

The prison brought in extra counselors to help us cope with what happened. Mine's name is Thomas, and he's the kind of guy I would have dated in my old life. Now he's the kind of guy who listens to me talk about laying in the makeshift foxhole under the bed for hours, the smell of death surrounding me, and how scared I was when my power was taken away.

As a Slayer, you have power, you feel power. You live, sleep, breathe, and eat power. Even as the arresting officer put the cuffs on me, I knew I could break them if I wanted to. Knew I could run, and disappear if I wanted to. Knew it'd take an army of normal humans to bring me down.

And how much stronger of an army can you get, than a few thousand women who've been caged up being given a chance at freedom?

The sound of metal on metal startles me, and I look up to see one of the guards, Ricky, knocking on the bars with his club.

"Yard-out," he says.

Faith grunts and rolls over, pushing her face into the pillow for a minute before oozing off the bed and standing up, rubbing her eyes. I get up as well, and Ricky walks us to the door, picking up his two-way. "I got 430019 and 598439."

"Check that," the garbled voice comes back, and the door starts to open.

"430019 and 598439 coming out!"

We head outside and start walking the perimeter of the exercise yard slowly. Faith lights a cigarette and I sigh, trailing my hand along the chain-link fence.

"Why do you do that?"

I look over at her. "Do what?"

"Every time we walk, you hold onto the fence like that, and you look down. There somethin' really interesting in the grass or something?"

I shrug a little. "Don't like looking up."

She frowns and looks up. "What's not to like? Blue sky, white clouds. Confused birds. Looks alright to me."

I lower my eyes to the ground again. "The barbed wire depresses me. If I look down, I can.. I don't know. Pretend we're walking through Weatherly Park or something." She doesn't answer me, and I lower my voice. "Pretty dumb, huh?"

"No," she says, blowing some smoke out thoughtfully. "It's not dumb at all."

"You know what is dumb, though?" I move a little closer to her as we walk.

"Deb's haircut?" she nods her chin towards Deb, who has a feathered mullet.

I laugh a little despite myself, and it sounds foreign to my own ears. "That, too. But.. I was thinking about how much I missed Slaying. Even though I always wanted to walk away from it, I miss it now. Isn't that stupid?"

Faith reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing it lightly as we start our second loop around the yard, and her voice is comforting yet regretful when she answers me.

"Yep. That's pretty dumb."


	13. The Good That Won't Come Out

 

> _All of the good that won't come out of me_  
>  _And all the stupid lies I hide behind_  
>  _It's such a big mistake, lying here in your warm embrace_  
>  _\- Rilo Kiley, The Good That Won't Come Out_

 

* * *

  
**Buffy's POV**  
  


A few weeks later, we lay in bed again. This time, Faith is laying on her side, closest to the wall, and I lay on my side in front of her with her arm wrapped protectively over my waist. Someone convinced the guards to turn on the radio and the faint sounds of an Avril Lavigne remix make their way into the cell, causing Faith to groan every time the chorus starts again.

"Just end it already, jesus," she grunts, pulling up the second pillow and putting it over her face.

I roll onto my back with a grin. "Not a big Avril fan, I take it?"

She pulls the pillow back just enough to glare at me. "I may have to kill again."

I laugh a little, despite myself, and look up at the underside of the top bunk. The mattresses--if you can really even call them that--have this strange black and white pattern, almost like what the chef's pants look like, and it's hypnotizing after awhile. Like one of those Magic Eye pictures, where you have to cross your eyes to see the picture.

I keep looking, but all I see is a mattress with an annoying pattern.

Faith shifts and rests against my side, and I close my eyes, relaxing. If I have to spend the next ten years of my life in this hellhole, this is really the only way to do it. The only way I'd survive it. Having someone I can count on, which, it turns out, Faith is.

Who knew?

"Summers?" a voice calls from the common area. I lift my head and frown. "Buffy Summers. 598439."

I look back at Faith, who motions me forward. I get up and walk out of the cell, to the common room, and clear my throat. "I'm Buffy Summers."

The guard eyes me up and down, like he thinks I'm lying to him. "You've got a meeting with Thomas."

Oh. Right.

I follow him through a maze of hallways, and he keeps one eye on me until we get to the warden's office. "We're meeting here?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "This paper says you are." He doesn't show me the paper, but he opens the door and sure enough, Thomas is in there. With the warden.

Well, this can't be good.

 

* * *

  
**Faith's POV**  
  


I guess I pass out for awhile when Buffy leaves, because when I wake up, she's back, curled onto her side and facing away from me. I stretch a little, trying to stay quiet in case she's sleeping, too.

"I want a tattoo," she says, rolling onto her back and looking at me, very much awake.

I frown a little, furrowing my brows. "Who are you?"

"I mean it. I've always wanted one, and by the time I get out of here and get one, my skin will be all saggy and gross and it won't look right."

I sit up, 'cause this is just a little too much to handle laying down. "You're planning to be all saggy by your early thirties?"

"Mhm." she nods.

"You know they'd flip the fuck out if they catch us, right? Getting caught doing tats is pretty much one of the worst things you can be busted for. Comes right after breaking out and dealing."

She shrugs. "Then we don't get caught. Please?"

I sigh and scoot down to the foot of the bed, sliding off it. "Give me five."

I take off without waiting for an answer, and head down the block a few cells, knocking on the bars of one of the cells.   
"Yo?" comes a voice from under the bed. A skinny girl with a shaved head, who everyone calls Bubbles for some reason, pops out from under it. "Damn, you managed to pull yourself away from Jailbird Barbie long enough to pay me a visit? To what do I owe the occasion?"

I shrug and lean against the bars. "Got a need."

"Don't we all." She pulls a cigarette from behind her ear and lights it.

"Looking for a lighter, pen, needle," I glance pointedly at the lighter in her hand.

She smirks, crossing her legs indian-style on the bed and laughing a little. "The lovebirds gettin' matching ink?" I shrug, cause she doesn't really give a shit what the answer is. "I might have some stuff. Depends what you got for me."

I reach into my tanktop and pull a little key out from between my breasts. Figured my sticky fingers would come in handy sometime. I dangle it for her, and she looks scandalized. "What's it open?"

"Pantry. All you can eat Coke and cupcakes, whenever you want." She goes to grab it, and I pull it out of her reach. "Not so fast. We both know this key is worth a shitload more than some tat supplies." Mostly because it gives her more shit to barter.

"Knew there was a catch. What do you want?"

"Your undying gratitude. And a raincheck."

"Raincheck?" Bubbles furrows her brows. "What's that?"

"Means I might come up to you on some random rainy Tuesday and want an umbrella or something, you get me?"

She nods and pretends to jot something down on her palm. "I owe Faith a favor. Now gimme the key, bitch." I toss it at her and she reaches into the mattress of the top bunk and pulls out a baggie with a sewing needle, a ballpoint pen, and a lighter in it, tossing it back to me. "Pleasure doin' business with you."

I check the baggie and nod before turning around and heading back to my cell.

 

* * *

  
**Buffy's POV**  
  


"How does it look?" I ask worriedly.

Faith rolls her eyes. "For the millionth time, it's beautiful. Which you'd know, if you could see it. Which you could, if you hadn't made me put it on the back of your neck."

I sigh. "I told you, I can hide it better there if someday I have a job that.. frowns on prison tattoos and ex-cons in general."

"Why would anyone frown on that?" she asks with a smirk, laying back on the bed. I study her for a minute, replaying the conversation in the warden's office in my head yet again. Before I even know I've decided to, I lean over and kiss her deeply, and she gasps in surprise before cupping her hand over the back of my head and responding.

I kiss her like I've never kissed anyone in my life, except maybe Angel, when I thought he was leaving for six months to trek across the world with an arm in a box. When I didn't know if I'd ever see him again.

She pulls back after a few minutes, taking a deep breath. "What.."

I just look at her, and I feel my eyes starting to well up. "Something happened, Faith."

Faith's brows knit in confusion. "You kissed me."

"No.. I mean, yes. Yeah, I did. I just.. before that. Um, when I went.. to see Thomas."

She sits up immediately, her entire body tensing into battle mode. "What did he do to you?"

I shake my head quickly, the tears threatening to escape. "No, it's.. not like that. We uh, met in the warden's office. He said.. I don't know. Something happened, and.. and Warren, remember I told you about him?" She nods a little. "Well.. it turns out.. um. He killed Katrina. And, uh.. framed me."

Her face pales a little. "He.. what?"

I swallow hard. "They're releasing me, Faith."

Her mouth opens, then closes again, and she rubs the bridge of her nose a little. "I--I don't understand. You're.. leaving?" I nod, and the tears start running down my cheeks. Her face tightens a little. "What.. the hell was that, then? What was that kiss, and that stupid tattoo? Some way of.. what? Easing the blow for me or something?"

I look away from her, focusing my eyes on the wall across from the bed. "So you'd know I'm not leaving you. This.. this doesn't change anything."

"It changes everything, B!" she cries out. "I mean, jesus. Of course I'm happy you get to go and live your life, and that you're all.. back to being better than me again. But, fuck, B. How can you think this doesn't change things?"

"It doesn't!" I insist, slapping my hand against the bed. "I still feel the same way about you, and.. and it's gonna be different now! I'm gonna come see you, and.. and when you get out, we'll be together again, and we can just.. pick up right where we left off."

She laughs, but it's a hard laugh. "Yeah, sure. I'm sure you'll go back to your life and hang out for the next ten or twenty years for me to finish up here."

"I will!"

"You won't," she snaps. "And it's just plain fucked up that you.. you kiss me, and get me feeling this way, and then just.. pull the rug out from under me! That was so unfair!"

"I'm sorry," my voice breaks. "I couldn't leave without.. you knowing."

Her eyes harden to stone. "When?"

I close my eyes, trying to maintain control. "Um. Pretty much now. They.. They gave me an hour to pack up my stuff."

She laughs again, her face ashen, and gets up, pacing back and forth.

It seems like hours before she talks again. "You're not packed," she points out.

I shrug. "Nothing I really need."

"Yeah, I'll say," she mutters under her breath.

"Faith, plea--"

"Just go!" she turns to face me, raising her voice. "Just get out already!"

"There a problem here?" I look up and a guard is standing outside the cell with a clipboard. Faith just leans against the bars dejectedly, ignoring him, and he turns to me. "We've just got a bunch of forms for you to sign, and then you're free."

I nod and stand up. "Faith.."

"Just go," she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

I lower my head, feeling myself break a little as I walk out of the cell for the last time. I start slowly down the hallway with the guard, each step a little closer to freedom.

I look back to see her, expecting her to be out of sight, to have climbed into the bed we shared for so long, cursing my name. But there she is, watching me through the bars with a nonchalant face, but her eyes betray her. She looks destroyed, and I mouth 'I love you' at her, but she just watches me hollowly until we turn the corner and walk through the metal doors, the little "B & F" in Faith's handwriting on the back of my neck still stinging.

It's funny how freedom can make you feel so caged.


End file.
